


Search History

by ackermom



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Chronological, Past Drug Use, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-08-26 00:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: There will be another game tomorrow, but Jack thinks about tonight: the stick shaking in his hands, the inches of ice between him and the puck, the nausea in his stomach. The eyes in the crowd. The miss.





	Search History

**Author's Note:**

> a study in kisses, breaths, and (wo)men

Jack is seventeen. Jack's world is falling apart. 

He thinks about the rush of the ice, even now, with hands between his legs and hot breaths against his neck. They are alone again, tipsy in another hotel room, empty bottles lined against the wall, the way Jack likes them. He watches the light play through the silver glass as Kent gets them off, groaning into the sheets.

There will be another game tomorrow, but Jack thinks about tonight: the stick shaking in his hands, the inches of ice between him and the puck, the nausea in his stomach. The eyes in the crowd. The miss.

"Shit happens," Kent had said between their lips.

Jack doesn't remember kissing him first, but he must have. Kent is holding him against the bed, his knees between Jack's thighs, his hands in Jack's hair. His touch leaves memories all over Jack's skin, and Jack lies still, wondering if Kent can taste the bile in his mouth. They collapse in trembles when they finish. Kent falls asleep, but Jack picks himself up, one nerve at a time. He pieces himself back together and throws cold water on his face. Something sticks between his legs; he tries to remember if Kent got him off or gave up on him. He doesn't know hat he said to make Kenny look at him like that, but he thinks he might have cried tonight.

"You're a mess," Kent says in the morning.

Jack's hair sticks up in the back. He moves like he's underwater, wading through something here only to find something else there. He is one step behind, and he can't break the surface to catch his breath. He digs the bottle from his bag and turns his back to Kent as he swallows his pills.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is twenty-three. Jack likes women.

There's an empty cup in his hand, and the flashing lights are giving him a headache. Someone yells. A bottle crashes on the floor, and the front door slams. The noise echoes through the walls, and Jack wants to sit down.

Camilla puts a hand on his chest and tells him to catch his breath, Zimmermann, it's just a party. She's hot, the curve of her dress clinging to her thighs, but she is all over him tonight. She smells sweet, like perfume; the scent makes his stomach turn. She laughs at something he says, and he tries to decide if she is laughing at him too. 

He wants something, and Camilla is warm. She'll wake up in his bed tomorrow and blow him before she sneaks out with her shoes in her hands. Someone will see, and they'll chirp him at practice and he'll say something offhand when they ask how she was. Maybe she won't leave after all, and maybe he'll have someone to hold when he can't fall asleep.

She's better than him and he can't get her off. But she stays through the night. It happens once, then twice, and she texts him in-between. They stand together in line at the dining hall, and her friends tease him. She kisses him in the daylight. She's warm, and Jack feels normal when he holds her hand. 

Jack kisses Camilla on the steps of the Haus, and Jack wonders if Kent was real. Jack thinks that he would like to be touched like that again, between the firm hands of a boy who ~~loves~~ wants him. Jack knows boys like that, but they don't know Jack. 

Jack kisses Camilla again. Camilla tells him to get out of his head.

Jack finds the bottle in his medicine cabinet. He takes his pulse. He counts to ten. Then he goes to practice and he skates until he can't feel anything else.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is eleven. Jack doesn't know. 

He is growing, but he is so small. The room towers above him. He could not reach the ceiling if he stood on his toes, and he knows because he tries. He stands as tall as he can and wiggles his fingers through the crowds above him, but everything is so much farther than it seems and he can't breathe between these trees. A gas expands to fill its container, but he is just a boy and this forest is not contained.

Jack fills his own container and curls into himself until he doesn't need to breathe.

He's still crying when his parents slam the bathroom door. The world is loud even behind these walls, and the white light burns when it glares off the shine of his mother's earrings. His hands shake. He paws at his throat until his father unravels his bow tie, and then it lays crumpled at their feet, a silent witness.

"What's gotten into you?" his father asks.

"I don't know," Jack says.

"Are you upset?" his mother asks.

"I don't know," Jack says.

"Are you hurt?" his father asks.

"I don't know," Jack says.

"Are you just making a scene?" his mother asks.

"I don't know," Jack says.

"You're getting too old for this," his father says. "I've had enough of these tantrums."

"We expected more from you tonight," his mother says.

"I'm sorry," Jack says.

His parents hug him, but he goes to bed feeling tiny. The next time he wants to cry, he holds his breath until his face turns red. He watches the clock. He wonders how long he can go on until there is nothing inside him but air. His eyes flood with tears. He sets a new record. He doesn't care that he collapses on his bedroom floor afterwards. He can't breathe. He can't feel.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is six. Jack is sensitive. 

He's crying again when the nanny picks him up from school. The peewee stick is heavy in his hands, and he plops down on the curb because he doesn't want to carry it. He doesn't want to carry anything. He sits with his arms wrapped around his knees until the nanny threatens to leave him there. Then he picks up the stick and drags it behind his shuffling feet as he trudges with her to the car.

"You have to get along with the other boys, Jack," she tells him.

"I don't want to get along with the other boys," he says.

"Jack, be nice."

"They don't like me."

"You still have to be nice to them."

"I'm not nice," Jack says.

He ducks his head against her leg as they walk, and he cries again when she says that she's going to tell his mother. He wants to play hockey, like his dad, but he doesn't know how to be nice. Charlie on the other team said that he's a crybaby, so he can't cry anymore because he's six and not a baby and not a crybaby. But he doesn't know how.

His mother tucks him in at night, and he falls asleep smelling her perfume.

"Where's Papa?" Jack asks.

"Papa's out of town," his mother says.

"I miss Papa."

"I know, baby. Jack-"

"Maman?"

"Jack, baby, listen to Maman."

"Maman."

"I want you to be a good boy at school, okay? Be a good boy and be nice to the other kids."

"I'm not nice, Maman."

"Yes, you are, Jack. And you know, Papa will be so proud of you." 

Jack sniffles. "Okay, Maman."

He doesn't cry when Charlie calls him a name and knocks him over on the ice. He tells his parents that he's being nice, and they tell him they're proud of him.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is fifteen. Jack gets off in the shower.

"I don't know," he says when the team asks who he thinks about. "Uh, I don't know."

"Come on, Zimmermann," someone shouts. "Whose tits are you jerking it to?"

Jack thinks Katie is nice. He almost kissed her last summer at the Canada Day fireworks when she sat close to him and knocked their knees together. He'd never seen a girl's legs so close before, and her skin felt soft again his. She felt warm. She asked him something, and when he tried to think of what to say, she wrinkled her nose and scooted away.

Jack knows that Kenny is not nice, but Jack likes Kenny too.

"I don't know," he says. "I wasn't thinking abut anyone."

They rough him up at warm-ups until he says it was Katie. They they rough him up even more, whooping and hollering until the coaches set them straight. Jack doesn't get it, and it wasn't Katie. He doesn't even know what her tits look like. But the team has never liked him so much. Jack smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is twenty-four. Jack thinks about hockey.

He learns the new players' names before he meets them, and he relearns their names when the team changes them by rite of passage. Someone asks if he needs flashcards, and everyone laughs when he says no, thanks. He wonders if they're laughing at him, but then someone punches his shoulder and he knows he's just being chirped.

He is someone without trying to be anyone. 

Jack thinks that summer did wonders for Bittle's tan, but not his wiry arms. He offers to help Bittle rebuild his strength routine. He wonders if it's hot in the weight room, or if it's just him.

"What are you doing, Jack?" Lardo asks.

She's talking to him, but she's watching Bittle.

His reflection plays in the mirror as he stretches. He looks small from across the room, like Jack could lift him over one shoulder and carry him around. He looks small up close too. The space around his waist is just the right size for Jack's calloused hands. Jack considers lifting Bittle as part of his weight training.

"What?" he asks.

Lardo shakes her head. "Nevermind."

Jack thinks about Lardo. Jack thinks about Bittle. Then Jack thinks about Bittle. Then Jack thinks about Bittle again, and then he wonders why he's still thinking about Bittle.

"You've been working so hard," Bittle says at midnight with a pie in his hands. "And you've been helping me so much lately, on top of everything else you have to do, and I just thought that I should say thank you."

"I don't know if I can eat that," Jack says.

There's a lot of sugar in pie, and he's been feeling weird lately. He's warm. His stomach is flipping.

"Oh," Bittle says.

"I'll eat it," Jack says.

Bittle beams. 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is twenty-five. Jack's phone is ringing.

"You're an idiot," Kent says.

Jack breathes. Beside him, Bitty stirs in the sunrise.

"I know," Jack says.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is nineteen. Jack is quiet.

Inside, the fireplace crackles. There are empty mugs on the coffee table, the kettle boiling again on the stove. Jack stows on the couch next to the fire and lets his mother tuck him under woven blankets: one, then another, then an arm around his shoulders and a kiss to his forehead.

The room is stifling. Beneath white skies, Jack is cold.

"Jack, baby," his mother says.

She brushes a hand through his long hair. "Have you thought about calling him?"

Jack has thought about a lot of things.

He doesn't say that he's tried calling, or that he cried when Kent didn't pick up, or that he never wants to see Kent again, or that he wishes Kent would just answer. He doesn't say that he is sorry, because there was nothing worse than watching his mother cry the first time he apologized from his hospital bed. He doesn't say that he wishes his father would talk to him or look him in the eye or take him to the ice. He doesn't say that he wishes the pills had helped.

"No, Maman," Jack says. "I'm just tired."

She tucks his head against her shoulder. "I'll be here when you wake up."

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is twenty-one. Jack is allowed to have fun.

There's an empty cup in his hand. That's bad, and he can't remember why. He refills the cup, something lukewarm sloshing over the sides. He thinks maybe that's bad too, but he can't remember why. He doesn't want to remember. It can't be bad if he feels so good.

The night is warm and he is full of something, not just air. Bodies press wall to wall, the music humming through the floorboards, and Jack lets someone wrap her arms around his neck and rub against him in the dark. He holds her close. She's solid, and her hands on his shoulders make him feel real.

It's not good when he can't get it up and she laughs at him and leaves. But it's all just for fun, so he goes back downstairs. He trips on the last step, and then he refills his cup and he lets someone dance against him and he kisses her even though she tastes like poison and he refills up cup and he drinks and refills his cup and he drinks and then he kneels on the bathroom floor and vomits until he can't feel his lips.

"Bro," Shitty says. "Are you sure you should be drinking like that?" 

Jack looks at his blurry shape, standing in the doorway. He can't help it when he cries.

"No," he says.

"Jack," Shitty says. "Come here."

In the morning, they clean the Haus. Jack's hands are shaking. There's a bottle of pills in his bathroom, but he's still drunk from last night. He scrubs a stain out of the carpet until his fingers bleed, and at the next party, he locks himself in his room and tries to breathe. Shitty buys him a pair of earplugs.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is thirteen. Jack is angry.

"You're too old to be acting like this," His father says. "How long are you going to throw tantrums, Jack? What's it going to take, Jack? When will you grow up, Jack?"

"You can talk to us, baby," his mother says. "What's gotten into you? Are you upset? Are you hurt?"

"I wish I was hurt," Jack says before he hurls his helmet at the wall.

The doctor gives him parents a prescription and tells them that some boys have a harder time than others. It's just puberty, the doctor says. The pills might help him calm down.

Jack doesn't need pills. He just needs to win.

But he doesn't like seeing his mother cry, so he swallows everything and lets her hug him until her perfume wears off on his skin.

He scores at the next game.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is sixteen. Jack is seeing stars.

"Oh," he says. "Oh."

"You like that?" Kenny asks between breaths. 

Jack's hands are shaking. He thinks that's not good, but it feels good when Kenny puts his mouth on Jack's skin. It feels good to have someone else's hand around him, even when he has to bite his lip to stop from yelling. 

Jack doesn't know why he wanted Kenny to do it, or why Kenny said yes, or if he'll ask Jack to do it next, but he knows that he doesn't care. He buries his face in his hand and closes his eyes and loses his next breath. His legs are shaking too, and they are a mess, the pair of them, dripping warm, but they clean up well together.

"No wonder," Kenny says when he finds the bottle in Jack's room.

"I don't take them," Jack says, and what he means is that he doesn't want to take them but he knows the coaches are watching. His parents are watching.

"Maybe you should," Kenny says.

Jack starts shaking before a game and takes his pills. Jack gets nervous on a crowded bus and takes his pills. Jack has too much to drink and takes his pills. Jack cries in the locker room and takes his pills. Jack hangs up on his parents and takes his pills. Jack holds Kenny at night and takes his pills. 

Jakes takes his pills and wins again. 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is eighteen. Jack is losing it.

He is drunk and his hands are shaking. He takes his pills.

The pills don't work. He takes some more.

The pills don't work. He takes some more.

The pills don't work. He takes them all.

He is drunk on the bathroom floor and his hands have stopped shaking. 

The pills work.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is thirty-five. Jack wakes to someone crying.

"Bitty?" he says. 

He hears Eric across the room and sees his figure swaying in the darkness.

"I'm here, honey," Eric whispers.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, honey."

Eric sends him back to bed, but Jack follows him into the kitchen and watches him prep the bottle. Eric asks him to test it, but Jack isn't sure what warm should mean. Eric trusts him anyways, and Jack holds back his tears.

"I'm having a lot of feelings," Jack says later, his head on Eric's shoulder.

"What kind of feelings, honey?"

"I'm nervous," Jack says. "What if I don't know what to do? I'm worried that I'll do something wrong. And I'm..."

His voice breaks.

"I'm scared," Jack says.

"Oh, sweetheart," Eric mutters. He brushes his lips over Jack's forehead. "So am I."

"Papa said I would figure it out," Jack says. "But I don't know what I'm doing."

He whispers. The crib in their room has been empty for so long, but tonight there is a tiny, wiggly person in there, and Jack doesn't know what to do with her. He wants to cry every time he sees her jellybean toes, and he doesn't know why.

He lets Eric hold him.

"I keep crying," he says.

"Honey," Eric says. "I've been crying nonstop."

"Shouldn't I be happy?"

"I think you are, Jack."

Jack feels the warmth in his heartbeat when Eric hugs him.

"We'll figure it out together," Eric says. "Okay, honey?"

Jack takes a breath.

Jack lets it out.

"Okay, bud," he says.

 


End file.
